


Second Verse, Same as the First

by 00qverlord



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously this is going to be kind of a dark fic don't read if you're bothered by it, Sexuality Crisis, Supernatural Creatures, Supernatural Elements, Wendigo, Werewolf, cw-anxiety and panic attacks, cw-mental health issues and shit coping mechanisms, cw-ptsd, it might be dark because I want it to be and i'm trying my best damnit, this takes place in Canada because I'm Canadian and I know the land, yeah that's thrown into the mix sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00qverlord/pseuds/00qverlord
Summary: Mike isn't entirely sure why he decides to go back to Blackwood Pines. Maybe it's because he left a wolf that he cares too much about in the sanitorium, maybe it's out of some twisted sense of self-loathing.Maybe he just wants to be sure about Josh's death.Regardless of the reason, the remnants of  the Washington cottage loom above him, unbalanced within the rest of the forest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Cave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227913) by [provocation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation). 



> Listen ok I intend to finish this one this time. I'll update Run asap.  
> This is a thing that I'd thought of when I'd first watched Until Dawn, but wasn't a skilled enough writer yet or brave enough to actually write it. The fic listed is the one that inspired me to write this, and if you read that one first you can like blatantly see elements ripped from that but look it's homage i swear.  
> (this is like shit fanfic of the other fic please go read that beautiful piece of art while i cry in the corner)  
> This fic is kinda dark, so please check the tags and if any of this bothers you I won't be offended if you don't read it.  
> 

(Please read the note before reading)

 

Mike's decision to go back to Blackwood had probably built up behind multiple incidents for longer than he realised.   
The newspaper that he throws on his kitchen counter falls open to the front page, a solid crease running down the middle but not obstructing the content.   
He expects it to be about yet another local corrupt politician, or something scandalous a court trial had exposed, or something  _normal_.   
He doesn't expect to see Blackwood mountain's peak staring back at him. Mike feels an icy sludge pump out his heart and flow through his veins, and his stomach started to work itself up into knots upon knots upon knots from just seeing the mountain again, even if it was only in photograph.   
He's just left his apartment for the first time in a week, and this is what he came back to.  He doesn't bother reading the headline, and even though he so desperately wanted to forget about what happened so he wouldn't be re-watching it every night, his eyes followed the line of the mountain over and over. 

He tears his gaze away from the newspaper, and sets the white bag of groceries on the floor.  

Mike, technically, didn't even need the food. His fridge still had food from before he left, and he hasn't been able to stomach anything much past crackers since he'd gotten dropped off by the police a few nights ago. He picks up the frozen chicken, stares at it for a moment, then drops it in his freezer. He watches it fall to the bottom, unobstructed by any other boxes in it's path. Maybe vegetarians had the right idea. Mike never thought he'd be able to smell meat again in his life after learning what he did about the creatures that resided in those mountains, but the portion of chicken on the shelf of the local Metro looked too appealing to pass up.   
He puts the rest of the groceries in his fridge, and one by one, he starts to forget about the newspaper recounting their tale a couple of meters behind him. 

He figures the remaining energy he has would be enough to put the beans away, and then he'd grab another pack of saltines, try to eat them, veg out on the couch and try not to fall asleep. He doesn't expect to feel just a little more rejuvenated after successfully stuffing all the cans and bottles into the fridge and packages in the cupboards. Mike's body was surprising him a lot lately. He grabs every bit of trash he could find, stuffs it in a bag, and ties it up to take it to the trash chute at the end of the hall. On second thought on his way out the door, he grabs the newspaper to take with him. 

The trash chute 's stuck. He could handle the minute walk to the chute, but his whole body hurt just looking at the door to the stairs. 

He leaves it outside the trash chute, newspaper tucked under the bag, and goes back to his apartment. 

===

He's with Jess, over at her house. Her guinea pig's wheel is squealing and it smells like cheap air freshener. They were all damaged after Blackwood, but it's more evident to Mike that Jess took a huge hit to her mental state. She still talked, and she looked chipper around the others but Mike knew, it moments like these on the couch and Big Brother in the background, that she wasn't as ok as she claimed. She was pressed into Mike's side, squishing him into the armrest, and Mike kept trying to convince himself that there was nowhere he'd rather be. 

There hadn't been a word uttered between the two of them for almost 2 hours, but the show in the background helped the living room not feel so suffocating. Maybe it should have felt suffocating. Mike almost constantly felt like he was drowning in a sea of expectations anyway. 

They'd decided to make grilled cheese at one point, but Mike doesn't really remember it. He remembers smiling a little with Jess watching the pieces of cheese jump off the oil like jumping beans and nudging her side when she's started to drift again. Jess' plate lay empty on the coffee table in front of them, ketchup smears around the sides, but Mike's full sandwich sat there, cold and abandoned. 

"Hey, how to you feel about getting together tomorrow afternoon? Chris, Ashley, Matt, Emily, Sam, everyone?" Mike asked, eyes not looking away from the screen but for a half second to glance at his girlfriend.   
She shrugs, which Mike supposes he should take as a yes, and he thinks that's the end of it.  
"Sure, that'd be good." She speaks up, barely above a whisper but enough for Mike to catch.   
Mike isn't entirely sure why he suggests it. He knew the relationships between all the people who'd come back home were kind of on the rocks at this point. Well, him and Jess were doing ok. But Mike had read somewhere once that tragedy either brought people closer together, or ripped them apart. He thinks, it probably brought them closer as friends, but Matt and Emily hadn't seen each other in a while and when they did, they fought, and Chris and Ashley's relationship probably wasn't long for this world. Shame, before everything went down, Mike would have thought that they'd be perfect together. Both of them had probably thought so too, but things change, Mike supposed. 

He's got therapy at 5, so Mike gently picks up Jessica --who's fallen asleep-- and puts her on her bed before grabbing his coat and boots, locking the door on his way out. 

It's a warm day, despite all the snow, and Mike feels like his skin is burning by the time he makes it to his car. It's an old 4 door, but it's reliable and been with him through everything. He gets in the driver's seat and shrugs the majority of his clothing off.   
He's taken off 2 different shirts, a sweater and a jacket, and he still has a t-shirt and a plaid shirt on, plus his pants and socks. He feels like what Chris looked liked. He just doesn't feel safe without it, the security of the shirts around his stomach helps him not check his back every 5 minutes, helps him not jump at every shadow he sees. He doesn't have stab proof clothing but layers help, and he now realises he would never see a night abandoned in the snow coming. 

\--

Therapy is kind of hell. 

Mike's never enjoyed sharing his feelings with anyone, his dad, Jess, anyone he was close to, never mind and woman in a chair that was pulled from an Ikea magazine.   
He's decided he'll bottle up his feelings, and then one day, he'll die, and that will be the end of it.   
His dad picked his therapist, and Mike wished that he hadn't. She's pretty and blonde, but about his dad's age. She has a lot going for her, a good reputation amongst the therapist community, but  Mike didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.   
He skirted around her questions as best he could.   
He sat down in the chair as she said hi to him, and he smiled back but didn't respond. He didn't notice he'd sat on the very edge of the plush chair, legs tense but arms folded in his lap politely. His eyes checked for the exits, there was a window to his left and the door he came in. 

"How have you been doing this week, Mike?" Ms. Ventura asks. Mike's been home for a week and a half, and he's already seen her 3 times.   
"Better, thank you." Mike hasn't been doing better. He's probably doing worse. He flexes his hand, the stubs where his middle and ring finger on his left hand should be scratching against the material of the chair.   
"Do you have any upcoming plans you're looking forward to soon?" He wants to tell her he doesn't. He wants to tell her he plans on seeing Jess only twice this week, because she wanted him over.   
"I'm having a couple friends over tomorrow."   
"Good," she smiles at him, and it makes Mike fidget, "it's good that you're still in contact with them and getting along well."   
He hasn't texted anyone, he needs to do that. Guess he forgot. He's been forgetting a lot of things, lately.   
"Why do you think getting your friends together is a good idea?" Because Mike misses them. He misses the dynamic they used to have, but now they're all pulling apart like frayed strings and Mike wants them to just be ok again for a night.   
"I don't know, it'll be fun I guess," Mike says to the wall behind Ms. Ventura.   
She nods and writes something down in her clipboard. The room is nice, not overly large or small, enough not to feel claustrophobic but enough to feel secure.   
Mike scans the bookshelf for any titles he recognises, and doesn't see any. 

The session goes on. 

She asks about Blackwood eventually. It's bound to happen. She knows he's one of the kids from there, but he's not sure if it's because of the news or because his dad told her. He decides it doesn't matter.   
"What scares you about the concept of the mountain?"   
The question startles him. They'd been talking about his continuing healthy relationship with his dad. He knows where his dad is and tries to see him when he can, but he doesn't make the 4 hour drive down from where he lives. 

At first, he isn't sure how to answer it. But Ms. Ventura looks like she expects an answer, so he spits something out anyway.   
"I think, it's just the memories of what happened there that scare me."  
He isn't sure that's the right answer either.   
It's pretty much at this moment that he realises he's  _not_ scared of Blackwood. At least, not anymore. He knows he's still pretty fucked up from trying to not have his face torn off for an entire night, but he's not  _scared_ of Blackwood. 

He doesn't share this revelation.   
Ms Ventura writes something down.  
A timer goes off.   
He jumps, but Ms. Ventura doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, that's all our time for today, I'll see you in a couple of days? You can tell me how the gathering goes." She gives him a smile on his way out the door. He's out of his seat like it caught on fire. He tries to give her a smile in return, but it falls short and turns into a grimace. She doesn't care. 

\--

When he gets home, he remembers to open the group chat on his phone.   
  
**M-Dawg:** Hey guys! Wondering if y'all wanna come over tomorrow for some snacks and video games or somethin

He sees Matt's changed his name again. As the replies start coming it, he realises Matt's changed  _everyone's_ name. 

 **Ashhhhy:**  Yeah sure  
**The Best GF ever:**  Sounds good   
**The Best GF ever:**  Whats up with my name  
**Chris Almighty:**  Matthew Mortimer  
**Matt the Magnificent:**  listen  
**Jessus:**  I'll come,, Matt what did you do  
**Matt the Magnificent:**  l i s t e n  
**M-Dawg:** Ok but is everyone coming tho  
**Chris Almighty:** I'll be there  
**Sam-wich:** what time  
**M-Dawg:**  like 6?  
**Sam-Wich:**  Cool

The conversation veers off in a different direction, Mike grins, and turns his phone off. He has the chat on mute otherwise he'd be up 'till 3 with everyone still talking. The group chat is their sacred place where they still get to joke like everything's normal, and Mike hopes it brings as much positivity into their life as it does to his.

\--

So the party's going great. It mostly consists of a lot of smoking weed, eating Cheetos, and making stupid jokes as Matt tries to beat Sam at Halo. They both suck, so it's kind of a hilarious disaster to watch.   
"Come on Sam, you gotta do better than that!" Matt heckles at her, but Sam's witty.   
"Matt, you're literally stuck between two rocks and you're out of ammo."  
"Sam."   
"What."  
"Stop."   
" _No._ "   
There's a lot of rambunctious laughter, and by the end of the night, Mike's stomach hurts from laughing. He doesn't remember laughing this hard since 3 weeks ago. Before Blackwood.   
The Cheetos are all gone halfway through, which isn't a surprise. Chris didn't participate, and neither did mike, but everyone else did courtesy of Matt and Emily providing from an old friend of Emily's. Ashley eats most of the Cheetos, but no one really seems to mind. People preferred to try and empty out Mike's fridge anyway. He'd have to go shopping again, if only so his friends could come over and eat it all for him. 

Just for a few hours, as he sits beside Jessica on the floor in front of Sam and Matt who're having a go at the enemy aliens again, Mike thinks everything's going to turn out ok. 

===

The nightmares aren't better, no matter what he says to Ms. Ventura. It's been a couple days since he's seen anyone. The party went well, and Matt and Jess were kind enough to stay behind for a couple minutes to help clean up. Jess was staying anyway, and Matt's just a good dude. He wasn't holding Emily up, she'd left with Ashley and Chris since Matt lived close enough to walk home. He'd told the others to go home and get a good night's rest, he'd clean up here. 

He hasn't seen Jess or Matt since. He called his dad the day afterwards, and that went well. He checked in, just enough to say hi and inquire about what was going on in his life (poker night was going well, apparently), and then he hung up, telling his dad he loved him and wishing him a good night.   
He didn't tell his dad that enough. 

His bed had looked less than inviting, so Mike picks the couch. He can still feel Cheeto crumbs in some places, but this shirt needs a wash and his whole apartment needs a solid vacuum. He grabs a throw and puts it under his head. It does little for comfort, but he closes his eyes anyway. 

\--

He's in his own apartment, but he gets up off the couch. He's not controlling so much as watching from an outsider's perspective still in his own head. It's not uncommon. Mike knows what's going to happen, but it's still a surprise as he goes to open the front door and is faced with the cold winter storm in the trees on Blackwood mountain. He's a whole province away, and last he checked he was still outside Edmonton and not back in the Skeena mountain range.   
He turns an about face to at least grab a jacket, but it's not his apartment anymore. He recognises the Washington lodge, but doesn't react to the flames licking up the sides of the wooden walls. The fire consumes a large grey figure hanging from the chandelier who doesn't make a single noise but a soft dying shriek, releasing the spirit inside. Mike has just enough time to think "oh shit", before the spirit consumes him whole. 

\--

He wakes up covered in sweat. He's not scared. Ok, that's a lie, but waking up feeling like his stomach was going to turn inside out was normal at this point. But the fear spreading through his body was never something he would get used to. His heater shut off sometime during his sleep, so it's freezing. He doesn't grab a blanket, but lets the cold turn his skin to ice. 

He reaches for the remote to the TV, groping around in the dark until his palm hits something solid. It's not the remote, but his phone.   
There's a text from Jess, wishing him a goodnight, which is when he realises he's been a sleep for a number of hours. He fell asleep somewhere in the mid afternoon, but it's after 3 am now. 

There's also a number of texts from Chris, from a couple of minutes ago. He decides to call him. It's kind of an impulse decision, but Mike isn't really known for thinking all his decisions through rationally.   
_brrm brrrm_  
_brrm brrrm_  
"Hey, Mike?"  
"Yeah, hey Chris." Mike lets himself relax against the armrest of the couch, his neck propped up comfortably by the throw.   
"Did I wake you up?" There's some rustling in the background as Chris questions.   
"No, I was already awake." Their 3 am conversations weren't uncommon, and it decidedly helped both of them not freak out when a shadow on their wall looks a little too close to a dead friend of theirs.   
"Have you slept already?" Mike asks Chris. He knows the answer already.   
"...no?"   
"Chris," Mike sighs into the speaker, "you gotta go to sleep buddy. Call me if you wake up again."   
Chris replies an affirmative and hangs up, wishing him a goodnight. That's pretty typical of their calls, short and to the point but helpful for both of them. 

Using the phone in his hand, he does find the TV remote. He turns the volume on low. The brightness makes his eyes ache, but he doesn't know how to change it.   
The history channel's on. They're doing a documentary on wildlife in the north, and Mike thinks he can probably settle into this. He lets his gaze lazily train on the polar bear as he listens to the soothing British voice in the background. 

Mike gets through the polar bears, the penguins, and the arctic foxes before he really has a problem.   
The wolf on screen startles him, a grey lanky thing that travels near it's pack on the hunt, and a wave of guilt crashes through Mike. He turns the TV off as fast as he can manage, plunging the room into darkness. He feels like he's going to be sick, so he curls up into a ball and purposefully doesn't think about the wolf he left behind on the mountain. 

===

He's not sure how long he's been in his apartment for, dreaming of glimpses of a grey wolf in his usually terrible nightmares, before he decides he needs to go back. He garners it's been somewhere around 3 days, but the group chat's been doing fine and no one has texted him lately.   
He's not really sure when he came to the final decision on the day of, but looking back he realises he woke up with the same sense of restlessness he's harbouring in his chest now.   
The split second he saw of the wolf on the documentary has been playing in his head over and over like a broken record, and Mike remembers petting Wolfie and how calm he was when he had to trudge through the hell hallway full of wendigos, just because he had his wolf beside him.

He feels like the biggest asshole in the world for leaving him there. 

He packs a bag, but it's the smallest dufflebag he has. He's not really sure what his plan is, he's not sure bringing Wolfie back is the smartest idea, but he thinks he at least needs to know if he's thriving ok.   
He purposefully doesn't think of the oldest Washington they abandoned on the peak. 

He stares at his phone charging on the kitchen counter, and seriously considers not bringing it along. He should only be gone for a couple days maximum, and he can't think of a single person who would want to text him for anything while he was gone. 

He does bring it, grabbing the whole chord as well, just in case. For 911 or something. That's it. He turns on his do-not-disturb for extra reinforcement. 

Mike grabs his bag and a whole bunch of granola bars, and puts it in the passenger seat beside him when he gets to his car in the building garage. He plugs his phone into the aux chord and charger as soon as he gets into the driver's seat and starts it up, but he doesn't play anything. He won't play anything until the highway, he supposes, because then he can't deny what he's doing any longer. It still feels like he's going over to Chris' or Jess' or any of his friends who live only a short car ride away. 

He puts the car in reverse, then forward, and stars his journey. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) Im so sorry for like never uploading ever

The feeling of listening to his own music without other friends in the car to judge him is one of the most liberating experiences Mike has ever felt.   
He tries to put on the radio shit he's got downloaded for some sense of normalcy, but half a song in he was scowling at the dashboard listening to someone sing about cars and girls.

He's on the highway, has been for a while now and is getting to the point where it's flat plains and a couple of cars in between. He puts the car in cruise control for a bit, and scrolls through his playlist of all the songs he actually does enjoy.   
He comes across a song his mom used to listen to, and he almost swerves. His breath catches, but the urge to listen is so strong he picks it anyway.   
Matt Hire's Signal in the Sky plays softly through his speakers and he remembers this song from when he was very young. The guitar starts and the voice follows, and Mike doesn't remember the words enough but to hum along.

It somehow seems to fit the trees and open fields flying by, and even though Mike's going back to the place that haunts him day after day, he's calm. He's a little bit comforted that he's been driving for a little less than an hour and he's still got 12 hours ahead of him. 

\--

He's been driving for 6 hours and it's somewhere around 4 in the afternoon. He's done nothing but belt Brittany Spears lyrics and keep his foot on the gas, but he feels exhausted. He  _really_ doesn't want to sleep in the backseat of his car, but at this point it looks pretty likely.   
He spies a Timmies just off the side of the highway, and decides he's going to get out to go use the washroom and buy a donut or a coffee or something. Probably not a coffee. As he gets closer and closer to the mountain, his nerves start to buzz like a constant electrocution, but it's been filtered into the car and he hasn't noticed it until he's standing stalk still outside the car wondering what the fuck he's doing with his life, how fucked up he must be if he thinks he can go back here without breaking down when he can't even look at a picture of the damned place.

He wants to hug his dad.

He almost does, he almost gets back into his car to drive the six hours back and stay with his dad until he feels safe again.   
But he doesn't. He wants to get back into the car and sleep for eternity but his legs take him into the cafe.

The Timmies is quiet. There's 3 other people at tables, and only a couple of employees on shift. When he comes back out of the bathroom, there's two people and the same number of employees. It smells like coffee and fresh timbits. Mike hasn't eaten anything but granola bars for the past couple of hours and he thinks his mouth might have watered a bit.   
He orders a steak-&-cheese panini and Mike's never felt happier. Well, that's debatable. But they toasted it just right and Mike happily sinks his teeth into it. He pays, eats and leaves all in a total of about 10 minutes. He's back on the road, and his playlist restarts.

===

He stops in New Hazelton to get gas and, hypothetically, pick up more food. He skimps on the food after looking at a stash of granola bars on the gas station shelf and feels his stomach flip. Technically, it's the only thing he's eaten in, like, 3 days, since he hasn't had the courage to make any outgoing calls and he hasn't had the energy to actually make anything. The gas station is probably older than his grandma, and he wouldn't be surprised if a gust of wind knocked it down.   
The neon sign flickers on and off in the evening light, but everything else looks still.

The snow had mostly melted back in Edmonton, a week into March causing spring to come early. This far north into BC, though, a sheen layer of white powder covers the grass and trees, just enough to see some green poking through the top. He does actually buy food on second thought, but it's a bunch of beef jerkey and some Smarties.   
He knows he'll have to come back if he's not successful within the first day, and it's then he pulls off to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and comes to an abrupt halt. His hands fly off the steering wheel, put the car in park, and land in his hair, tugging and pulling as his breathing speeds up and his shoulders start to shake.   
He  _really_  doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He doesn't  _have_ a goal. He's going to get an  _animal._ He's talking about being successful but he doesn't even know what he's looking for. His stomach churns. He wants to leave, to go back home and forget this. He wants to sort out his shit before never coming back here. He wants his dad, he wants Jess.   
He wants Chris.   
The realization comes as a surprise, as usual, but Chris is the logical option that pops into his head. Chris is a sturdy friend who's smart, and can think things through. He picks up his phone and unplugs the aux chord. He skims through his contacts until his finger hovers over Chris Hartley. He hesitates over it for a second, but gets over his self conciousness enough to hit the button, and then it's too late to decide not to call.

"...Hello?" Comes over the line, staticky and a thousand miles away. "Mike?"   
He doesn't speak for a second, still feeling like someone shoved sparkplugs into his chest.   
"Mike, are you OK?" He sounds skeptical, but Mike can hear the concern layered behind it.   
Mike swallows weird and immediately regrets as he coughs.   
"Yeah, yeah I'm ok." He croaks out, his throat straining after being used too much and then abused in a short span of time.   
"...You don't sound OK." There's the Chris Mike knows.   
Mike's really not alright. He doesn't want to lie to Chris, but he doesn't want to admit that either. "Are any of us really OK in the grand scheme of things?"   
"Don't avoid my question, Munroe."   
"Yeah, I'm fine. Honestly. I just choked on a Skittle." Mike doesn't have any Skittles. His Smartie package is unopened in the backseat.   
"...Alright... So, why did you call me?"   
Shit. Uh, Mike didn't totally think this out. "I, uh, I don't know. I think I was going through like an existential crisis or something and then I called you 'cause you're logical and stuff but then I kind-a figured my shit out after I hit the call button but by then it was too late and I'm rambling I'll shut up now." Mike clamped his mouth shut, stared straight through the winshield at the imposing mountain range ahead of him, and tried not to freak out more than he already was.   
"Dude are you high?"   
"What? No!"   
"You sound high. Are you sure you're seriously alright?"   
Mike internally sighed. He didn't mean for this conversation to go so terribly. "Yeah, actually listen. I'm going to visit my dad for a few days. I'll just be in the city for a bit. Just to get out of the neighbourhood, yeah?"   
Chris didn't speak for a second, "yeah, ok. Why are you telling me this? It's your life, dude."   
"I just want someone to know if I, like, go missing or something." They might look for him in the wrong place, though.   
"Alright. Cheers dude, have a good drive."   
"Yeah, see you later man."   
Mike hits the end call button and lets out a huge exhale. If he wasn't able to talk to Chris without sounding like a complete moron, it was no bloody wonder he couldn't even order Pizza.

He plugs the phone back in to the aux chord and he hits shuffle as soon as he opens his music.  _Colder Weather_ 's soft melodies slide through the speakers and after talking to Chris, Mike feels like maybe he can actually do this. Goddammit, he's going to get Wolfie.   
The mountains behind New Hazelton loom, a good hour's drive but nothing he can't conquer. He's not sure if the cable car will still be working since they were the last people that went up there, but it would save him the hour hike up the mountain he would have to do if it  _is_ broken. The cable car would cut down his journey to 20 minutes, which would save him from having to metaphorically chop his legs off if they cramped.

The roads only get a little bit worse the closer to the mountain he gets. It's northwest of New Hazelton, and he's pretty sure he's on a slow incline as well. He turns down his music, though doesn't turn it off, just enough to make sure he can catch any black ice patches that may have still resided on any sharp corners mid-winter.   
  


The section of mountains in the Skeena Range in the Rockies known as Blackwood, as far as Mike knows, aren't individually named, but he knows which one is the mountain the Washington's own. It isn't the largest, but it isn't the smallest by far. As Mike drives up the main path, the side path heading in toward the range holds an old wooden sign on a pole with  _Washington Mountain_ over it in chipped yellow paint. The path is just wide enough for Mike's car and it's a wonder how Matt's Jeep fit down this path the first time.

The gate's locked with a padlock that looks like it's heavy enough to kill someone if you hit them hard enough with it. A heavy, iron lock with the key nowhere in sight. Mike sits in front of the yellow crossbar, his music still playing through the speakers and his car still on idle, pushing air through the heater. He grabs his winter hikers from the passenger seat beside him and puts them on. The blue winter jacket he owns is lying next to it and he wrestles that on too.   
He can't see the peak of the mountain from here, and he knows it's a bit of a hike out to the cable car.  
He wonders if he should be nervous, but he isn't.  
He just looks down the trodden path with steel resolve. He thinks, it'll be ok if he just goes back up to the sanatorium to find Wolfie and doesn't have to lay eyes on the Washington estate again. 

Mike pulls the car into the forest next to the gate. The dark grey colour helps it blend in nicely with the forest and fallen logs around it, but the snow is kind of a stark contrast and Mike sends a small prayer to whoever's listening that it won't get towed. Technically, no one should be here. It's been almost a month, the police took what they could get, and now it's back to it's status as private property. He gets out of the car and pops open the door to the back, grabbing his bag of supplies; food, extra clothes, the likes. He didn't expect to be around very long, just enough to get his wolf back.   
Maybe find Josh's body if he was unlucky enough.   
He closes both doors and starts down the path towards the cable car.   
His phone sits on the centre panel between the seats, still attached to the aux chord.

\--

It takes him an hour and a half to reach the cable car shack.  
Mike remembers the cable car's keys are gone the second the small shack comes into his line of sight as he emerges from the forest. Josh took them last time they were here to prevent them from escaping, and Mike was pretty sure he didn't have time to put them back.

Mike kinda realizes that despite his confidence now, he's never really gotten over his fear of blackwood, no matter how much progress he's made with his therapist. He turns the bend and can swear he sees the blood on the map again. Just for a few seconds, but it's enough to get him to freeze and check again. There's nothing there. The map's been taken out, it's just a corkbord now. It doesn't really do much to calm Mike's electric nerves.   
The mountain looms above him, almost a straight hike up, and Mike can see a couple of paths through the sheer rock face that lead up to where the sanatorium is. It would have taken him 20 minutes in the cable car, but if he doesn't stop walking it might take him around two to three hours to hike up to it.  
He climbs over the fence guarding the mountain below, and starts his trek.

\--

It's cold and it's almost dark, and Mike is once again questioning his own decision to do this, which somehow keeps cycling back to him wondering just how sane he really is.   
He keeps reminding himself of Wolfie though, and bringing Wolfie back with him to a better and safer place. He's really not sure he's totally equipped to handle a wolf in his tiny apartment realistically, but even if Mike took him somewhere else it would be better knowing he was safe than losing sleep over feelings of abandonment.   
He's losing light fast, the shadows of the trees already overtaking the light more than he'd like.   
He stops and flings his bag over his shoulder, letting it land on his boots for support as he rummages around through it for his flashlight. It's tucked near the bottom, but he finds it.   
He closes his bag and puts it back on his back, he turns his flashlight on and points it to follow the path straight up, and freezes. 

His phone.

He forgot his fucking phone in the car.

He can't go back for it now, he's far closer to the sanatorium than he is to the car.   
It's alright, he rationalizes, he's only going to be at the sanatorium for a couple days, maximum. Less, if he can find Wolfie faster. He told Chris he'd be at his dad's for a few days, and by now Chris has probably already told the rest of their friends.

If his phone dies in the cold, he can always charge it again when he starts his car back up soon.

\--

The sanatorium comes in to view a little less than an hour later. The looming structure is just how he remembered it, minus the charred looking bits around the back. The front door is closed, but Mike hopes to God it's not locked. He would really prefer not to go through the wall like he did last time.

He wants to retain some semblance of being a human being and not temporarily share qualities with a raccoon.

The front door is unlocked, and Mike thinks he expects to feel different, but he doesn't. He expects to feel something, anything. Fear, maybe. Fear or a strange dark nostalgia that grabs him by his toes and sends him running off into the night, but he doesn't. He just sees the wide open room and remembers. The other wolf, the man with the flamethrower who saved their lives.

Everything was exactly as he'd last seen it. The couch, chairs, the barrel with the cigar case, the TV and accompanying desk, the chunks of ceiling that lay in broken pieces around the open area. The cages full of leftover supplies.

Mike forgets half the sanatorium burnt down, honestly. But the sharp draft that blows through the back rooms is enough to remind him. He pushes open the gate that leads to the back staircase and he swears, just for a second, that he can see the shadow of a wendigo on the wall down the hallway.   
Mike freezes. Shit, there's no way one escaped. Mike knows for a fact, he killed every one of them that was in here. But the fire doors at the front of the building had stopped the fire until it eventually went out. Probably due to snowfall. Mike looks around, moving as little as possible. He glances around his surroundings for any kind of weapon, because he was an idiot and literally didn't bring a single thing to defend himself with. The halls are charred and muddy, broken glass and plaster scattered around, but Mike spies a pipe out of the corner of his eye, rusty, but it looks like it could pack a decent punch if he tried hard enough.   
Very quietly and as slow as he can manage, he leans over, shuffling his feet inch by inch.   
The moon shines through the cracks in the walls and roof as he creeps down the hallway, it's miraculous none of the old floorboards make any noise.   
The shadow hasn't moved. At this point, Mike's kind of convinced himself that it's not a wendigo, because it hasn't moved yet, but he really isn't keen to take that chance anyway.   
And then the floorboard creeks.   
The shadow moves, just a little, but it's enough spur Mike on, leaping around the corner ready to swing the pipe down on any type of assailant, wendigo or otherwise.

"Holy macaroni!" Mike cries, and the actual, real live wolf howls back at him, and Mike reels the pipe back.   
The wolf that apparently had been previously lying down, was up on it's haunches, ears pinned back and growling it's pearly whites at Mike.   
Mike fixes the pipe up by his shoulder like a bat, but it's clear this is a stalemate, and he thinks the wolf knows it too.   
It's not Wolfie, which is disappointing, but not surprising. The wolf is a deep brown, not a common colour which Mike supposes he can take as his claim to fame, but it means he'll still have to spend tomorrow looking for Wolfie, which was kind if what he was expecting anyway.   
He lowers the pipe slowly as to not startle the other wolf, and gets to his knees, then eventually lies on his back, stomach facing the shambles of the ceiling.   
A sign of submission.   
After getting back from their, well, "adventure", Mike spent three days with minimal contact and 18 different tabs at any given moment open on his laptop sat on the couch, all open about wolves. Wolf behavior, pack mentality, biological and social history, anything he could get his hands on.   
It seemed to be legit stuff, because as Mike sinks down, the wolf starts to look less and less suspicious of him. Mike lays there for what he thinks could be for a good five minutes before there's any movement from the wolf. The growling has stopped, and the nails on the wood click the short distance over to Mike.   
Mike freezes and tries to calm his racing heart as the wolf's cold snout prods at his neck and face, all over, sniffing, and by the end, Mike's pretty sure he's been deemed "not a threat", but it feels like he dunked his face in a bucket of ice water.

The wolf sits down beside him. Mike sits up, slowly, but the wolf still tenses.   
Mike takes off his glove, which is a definite mistake when his finger tips his the cold air. He brings them slowly towards the wolf's muzzle, close enough for the wolf to sniff, and it does. He licks it once, and Mike takes that as permission to run his fingers over the wolf's soft, thick fur.  
There's a silence that settles over the two, and Mike feels himself breath out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It's late, the cold night starting to settle between them, but Mike can't find it in himself to care right now. The dusk covers them with a chill, but right here, right now, Mike's more at peace with himself than he has been in the past couple weeks. He's back on the mountain, a wolf companion with him, and he's a couple steps closer to his arching goal.


End file.
